A Doddering Tenderness
by kusegoto
Summary: (Мор. Утопия / Pathologic) He leaves, very soon. They can take some chances, even if it never grows, even if it never changes. Artemy Burakh/Bad Grief from Pathologic 2. NSFW warning for sexual content. Bad Grief is trans.


**A/N: **note that while both of them are younger, they're both 20 at the youngest!

also, grief is trans in this, for the record. like everyone in pathologic is trans but the guy whose entire thing is "being a specific type of person that he was not set up to be" is absolutely trans. addendum: i'm trans!

there's a brief discussion between the two where they talk about (trans) pregnancy risk. it's very brief but please keep in mind if you're at all uncomfortable with that.

title is from a cloud in trousers by vladimir mayakovsky.

* * *

There are three trains at the station. Two are westbound, for the Capital and her fellow Cities, and set to leave in two days, once the meat is packaged and prepared for transport. The other has become one of many hovels for the youth of the Town since its abandonment; often teenagers, with stray youngsters running through the matching open doors of both sides, early in the evenings before they are found and brought home.

This one will gather rust and remain for the next seven years. But for now, it is a solace. A lantern sits between two youthful men, centred between the two doors. Artemy sits on one side, alone, yet not, yet alone all the same, stiff in his thoughts. Behind him, he can feel Grigory's presence, as he leans back on his arms.

Gravel couldn't make it. Stakh didn't want to. Now, it is only Cub and Grief.

If there were more of them, perhaps in a final farewell, maybe they could run around the Steppe. Wander too close to the Snake Pit and spend the night under the stones. There's usually a firepit there, still warm from the last camp to take roost, and they could sleep in the grass and like themselves together and pretend they're even younger.

But Grigory wanted to sit by the warehouses. They've been building them for böös Vlad ans his growing enterprise, and it's fun to — by Grief's words — 'mess around.'

"Cause problems as a midnight crew," Grigory muses, "Leave scraps and pickings for morning shrews."

"You've caused enough for the Enterprise workers," Artemy said. He's been mindful not to use 'grief' when in the presence of the self-made moniker. "Nothing for Vlad. Just the innocent. You know he doesn't give a shit."

"I like the steel they're using. Reminds me of big cities. Think we'll get a couple more neighbours?"

"Perhaps." Artemy looks south, towards the old village. Grigory likely doesn't notice. "But knocking over large pipes just makes noise."

"Your responsibility's getting the best of you. Soon, there won't be a Cub left to care for," Grigory complains. "Preparing yourself?"

"What are you talking about? I'm no different than I've always been."

"City's going to change you, Cub. I'll miss when you ran through dirt with us." Grigory pulls his legs up off the edge of his side of the train and drags himself over to Artemy's side. He's careful not to knock over their lantern - the last thing the station needs is a blackened train car, scorched by oil. "Gravel's got gravel in her boots. Bet she's gonna cry when we gotta say goodbye."

Artemy looks over his shoulder. "I never asked to go, you know."

"Doubt you'd want to run too far from the nest."

"Exactly. There_fore_, I'd prefer it if you didn't suggest I was running from _anything."_

Grigory's smirk is always a lazy thing. Lounging back like the world's hoping to hold his shoulders. Artemy is certain he's only free of the waning smile of Grigory Filin when he's sleeping, dead in his dreams. Mercifully, the way Grief watches him is with far less biting mirth than he's used to. Just picking at the sores.

"Ain't running from much, then, huh? Stakh's got you pinned for a deserter."

Artemy grimaces. "Don't talk about him."

But there — the always-knowing, always-wondering grin is gone, and Grief rolls his neck. It's hard to find the difference between his troublemaker memory and the almost-criminal threat that Grief's trying to be. It's hard to tell how genuine his stare is, if it's out of curiosity or disappointment.

Maybe he cares. He probably does. They've cared for sixteen years, and those missing four are only because Artemy can't remember that far back.

"Root's gone bitter, hasn't it?" Grigory asks, "Like a couple of letters you forgot to send."

"Is that your way of telling me to write?" Artemy asks, turning himself so he leans against the car door. The shape of it presses uncomfortably into his spine.

"Wouldn't mind if you did."

"You moving out soon?"

"Hoping to." Grigory curls a leg in, sitting on his knee as the other dangles off the edge. The grass isn't as tall right below the train car, where the wheels and tracks and steel all press down, crushing the soil. They could almost pretend they're off the ground, somewhere in the sky, if they don't look at the hard earth of the Steppe. Grigory looks like he wants to lean back on something, rest his arm on a ledge of sorts. Maybe an arm rest, like his own spread throne. "Might find Barley and make it a team effort. You think I could start shop?"

"I don't know if you'd be able to handle sitting in one place for so long," Artemy half-jokes, thinking about Grigory, with his lounging silhouette and sprawled out body, trying to fit on the tiny stool that the grocer down the street from his house perches on.

He misses the way Grigory raises his brow. But he doesn't miss the way he crawls over and takes his place half on Artemy's stretched leg, whistling low on his dare. "Fine. I'll settle here."

His coat is thick. But that makes the late evening weather more bearable. Artemy watches Grigory lean back against him, even offering him half of his coat's length with how it lays across them. Artemy's shoulders tense, but his expression barely changes.

"You're up to something," he manages to say.

"Gonna miss your nagging, Burakh," Grigory says, into his neck.

"Is that all this is?"

"Only a little. Mind if I take my shot? Before you go?"

"I wouldn't mind."

Grief's still got a smooth face. He can feel it under his jaw, where he tucks his mouth in and kisses the curve, the evening drift falling silent. Artemy leans his head back, up against the car's door, allowing his eyes to fall while Grief makes his home in his throat. Artemy moves his furthest hand up to his elbow, and hasn't an idea where to put it. He'd like to pull him in. But maybe he shouldn't? Maybe he should — should and shouldn't change as Grigory gets more comfortable.

The seat he takes on his thigh is light and easy. Artemy feels the grin Grigory wears against his skin, and feels an overwhelming urge to have that against his own mouth. He touches Grigory's chin and brings it up, a clumsy and almost-too-hopeful press of mouth to mouth. Gratefully — Grigory keeps his grin.

Artemy welcomes him into his lap, raising him up, taller than him. "I like this," he admits, and it passes through his teeth.

"Messing around never seemed your thing," Grigory admits. "Good to see I'm wrong."

Grigory lifts himself up, perched on his knees, and takes Artemy's mouth against his once more. He kisses with more experience than him — far more, enough that Artemy wonders who he might have crawled on to before, who else he's kissed. Faceless hands, boys their age...

The weight he lowers down in to Artemy's groin is calculated. "Mm." He's definitely got experience.

Artemy breathes in through their kiss, drawing in the grin and breath and need of Grigory. With a more errant touch, Grigory pulls Artemy off the frame, and with a firm press on his chest, pushes him to the car's floor.

He has the mind to support Grigory by his thighs as he moves himself against Artemy. But he also turns his head away, catching his breath.

"Hesitant?"

"You're not about to shame me for... lacking experience."

Grigory makes a sudden movement, leaning himself back with a deeply amused expression. "No — really? You, of all the men, of all the bachelors—"

"I am expected to — wait, until..."

Artemy turns his head away again. With that, Grief's eyes widen, and with disbelief in his grin, _"_ _Marriage?"_

The lack of response is enough for Grief.

"You tra_di_tional thing!" he says, lifting himself up. The lantern casts a hard shadow around him, illuminating only his silhouette, his body, his arms, thighs, hands down at his side... "Still the old man's son, even when you're 'bout to run off to your new life."

"Still my father's son," he mirrors, "even when I have Bad Grief in my lap."

"I'll take that as the compliment I've earned," Grief replies. He moves himself back down, so he sits instead of kneels, and Artemy has to look away from him again. This time — a little more embarrassed, and far less indignant.

Grief moves again, raising himself up, and settling down, as if he couldn't believe the first time. This time, even he shudders. "Can _feel_ you."

"Someone could find us," Artemy warns.

"That never stopped us before."

"We've never done _this_ before."

"Never stopped you fighting, raving, rumbling..." Grief looks down at Artemy's hands, secure on his thighs. His coat runs down over them, hiding where Artemy experiments with his touches. "Would you, if you could?"

"Wouldn't we..." Artemy doesn't flush, but he does look troubled, as he fumbles one of his hands to gesture at Grief's stomach. "Risk, erm..."

Grief cackles. "Knocking me up?"

Now he might be a little warm. _"Grigory."_

"What would your old man say, making an honest man out of lil old me after your farewell party?" Grief's smirk is nothing fair. He rests his hands on Artemy's chest, and that's what earns him a smack on his thigh. Artemy seems to realize how futile such a threat is in their position, however.

Grief rolls his head on his shoulder. "I'll ask you this: do you _want_ to?"

Artemy lays his head flat on the train cart's floor. It feels uneven. It smells atrocious. "... It'd be fun."

"Even if it's just about midnight?" The way he's looking down at Artemy is dangerous. It's exciting. It's too much to doubt.

"If we're quiet." Artemy looks at how neatly Grief sits on him. He pushes up on his elbow, so when he lifts his other arm to help slip off the coat, he doesn't have to reach far. Grief allows him to help slip it off. Artemy decides he likes seeing the shape of Grief's body reveal itself from under the bulky coat.

"Sounds to me like you want to."

Artemy keeps his eyes lowered. At the shadow of the lamp light behind Grief. At the shadows outside their cart, as if one might form into the shape of an older adult, of Stakh or Lara, of his father. Earth forbid his father find him straddled, half-hard, by Grief. "If I do, I'm pulling out."

Grief groans.

_"Grigory."_

"Don't think I even needed to hear you admit you've never been with a fellow before if you're going to act like this," Grief says. And before Artemy can insult him back, smack him hard, he angles his hips down to drag on the shape of his cock, as if to put an end to any argument. Artemy's hands grip into Grief's clothes, instinctively. Grief's smile is far from innocent. "There's a good Cub. Just let me know, let me know..."

The weight moves, down Artemy's thighs and his legs, until Grief lowers himself to the spread of Artemy's tips of his fingers hook into the plain trousers and drag them down over Artemy's thighs. The swell of his cock is enough to make Grief's grin break wide again.

Artemy's own throat feels dry, but the echo of his heart is far more excited than he might seem to be. He tries to sit on his elbow once more, just to watch Grief as he holds up the half-hard prick and welcome it to his tongue — tries, but very nearly drops back down, feeling the jolt of electricity fire through him at that first contact.

_"Fuck."_

Grief has thin little lips and his kisses felt like the corners of a handkerchief, weak and a courtesy. But his tongue is what mesmerizes Artemy, the way he rolls it down the flank of his cock, tonguing the skin he pulls down with every assisting stroke. It wets him well, the further he pulls Artemy into his mouth, an experience he could chase the answer of until dawn came and their entanglement was broken.

He sucks on the head, pursing his lips around what peers from the drawn back skin. Artemy lowers a hand down into Grief's hair, feeling him tilt his head back to appreciate the scratch on his scalp. Artemy says something, and he isn't sure if it's a grunt or if it's the coarse sound of his friend's name. Grief responds with a low, lurid hum, led by the back of his throat, which he greets with the head of Artemy's cock.

Artemy pulls on Grief, who obliged as far as he can pull him. He can feel how his mouth moves around him, how his jaw stretches to welcome the swell of its length, how at its full size Artemy can only see Grief swallow him down without nary a cough. He thinks about others Grief may have welcomed into his mouth. Or maybe he's just gifted. The idea of there being more might be too much for his dreams and chasing fantasies to handle.

"I'm close," he admits in a gasp, and Grief — tremendously unfair — pulls up his head, departing his tongue from Artemy with a single pop of his lips. He offers him slow, lazy pumps to make up for the missing warmth of his mouth.

"Pace yourself," he says, voice only a little raw, and most certainly breathless. "Not allowing you break in half before I get this thing in me."

"I _really_ don't think we should risk that."

"I'll be as honest of a man as I can be, Cub. I want this bull shaped _thing_ rearranging my insides."

Artemy balks and rolls his head away, feeling the uncomfortable flush of crimson. "I'll listen to you, if you _never_ refer to it as that again."

Grief is on his knees and already with his trousers down before he replies with _"Excellent."_

Artemy pushes himself up off the floor and drags Grief into his lap in proper, pulling him in and pushing his cock against his crux. Grief grins into their kiss, the low hum back in his throat as he supports himself with two arms around Artemy's neck. Perhaps it's an effect of being around Grigory, wanting to break rules and defy what they're supposed to do. Artemy doesn't feel guilty. Hesitant, maybe. But he's been trying to keep a level head these days.

Grief lifts himself up and drags himself against the shape of Artemy's dick. Even he seems humbled by what they're doing — just for a moment. Maybe he's just trying to flatter Artemy during his first time.

"Hold on," Artemy murmurs against him, holding on to Grief's waist just a little tighter so he can turn them, bracing themselves against each other so Artemy can lean him back into the wall of the train car. Grief looks like he mourns the loss of pressure against him.

"Fine, fine, I'll yield to laying down," Grief laments, with an eye roll Artemy can't take seriously.

"Do you want me to lay down?"

"I've warmed up to the idea of your weight. You're strong, Burakh, even for a scholar type." Grief lays himself back with a comfortable slouch, tipping his head. "Take that off, won't you?"

Artemy looks down to his shirt. After a pause, he strips himself bare, unwrapping himself from the robed shirt. It's hard to not watch Grigory ogle him, like he's thinking far, far ahead, about what he'd do to him. Either he's got experience, or he has some tremendous fantasies.

"Alright. All yours." With a nudge of his leg, Grigory allows Artemy the sight of his crux, pulling off one of the gloves wrapped around his wrists before he runs his fingers on his thigh. Artemy watches him lead them through the coarse hair, dragging his cunt open, just a moment.

His tongue feels tremendously heavy. Grigory turns his wrist, fingers up, and helps Artemy lead his cock forward. He bites down on his lip when the head teases his entrance.

"Go on," Grigory insists, with his breath short and voice low, "I ain't gonna break, I've done this, unlike—"

Artemy holds on to Grigory's thigh, with his other hand braced on the floor, and pushes his cock in, catching against the shape of Grigory. He can feel Grigory's whole body jolt from the hand in him, but before Artemy can allow his concern to wash over his desire once more, one of Grigory's heels digs into his lower back.

Entering him is — easy. The thought that sucking Artemy off was just as exciting for Grigory is enough to make him ache. He looks from how his cock slowly disappears inside of his eager cunt to the way Grigory's clever mouth slowly falls open, his sharp eyes fall shut, and his grin loses all focus. There's a laugh, somewhere, among his breathing and panting, and even when Artemy can feel himself slipping farther inside, almost hilting, almost almost there, there's very little tension in his body.

Who else has he been with? Does Artemy care? Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. It's hard to not conflate their intimacy now with what he must believe in. He holds on to Grigory, feeling him clench his fingers into his arms and fall into the moment, and thinks instead, that it's definitely one of Grigory's fantasies to be here. Artemy puts both of his hands on his hips and pulls him in.

He wants to keep himself quiet to listen to how Grigory grunts his name, how it sounds and feels and looks to see him lay back and take that weight he complimented him on. Artemy clenches his teeth and rocks into him, unable to keep himself from pushing his hands up under his shirt to hold on to his lower back. Artemy pulls him, Grigory drags his hands down his arms, it is just them and only them for a moment in the train car, alone with the grasslands and the steppe and their urgent need for one another.

Grigory clenches himself down on Artemy's cock, and causes his stomach to lurch. He chases that tension, holding Grigory by his hips again to turn them, flip them down to lay Grigory down and press against him. He keens with a sound of ecstasy, locking his legs to keep him inside, head falling to the train's floor.

"Fuck, Cub, you're fantastic, you're a fucking _natural,"_ he groans rough, a hand in Artemy's hair, holding his face into his throat. Artemy turns himself to mouth at his skin, and lifts a hand from his hips to support himself by Grigory's head.

Leaning forward brings Grigory's hips off the train car floor. His legs stay firmly locked around Artemy's lower back, his calves tending with every push and press into him. With a weakened, breathless voice, he leans his head to Grigory's ear. "I'm going— finish— going to pull out—"

Grigory swore. He digs his nails into Artemy's arms, and pinches him hard enough to get his attention. His eyes unfocused, and his breathing in sharp, cut sounds with every snap of Artemy's hips. "Patient. _Patient._ Finish me before you break, or I'll never forgive you, I'll leave you battered—"

Artemy keeps his pace firm, pressing down hard and urgent into Grigory's core with every breath to guide him. As if frustrated, Grigory grabs the wrist Artemy uses to try and drill down into him and forces his hand over his clit, dragging Artemy's clumsy hand against himself before Artemy catches what he wants and works Grigory himself. The sound Grigory makes is agonized, something trapped in the throes of his own aching orgasm that Artemy almost remembers where they are, and wonders if someone could hear them. Grigory's mangled cry of both Artemy's name and man urgent whine is physically marked by how he arches his body up into both hand and hip, clenching his cunt hard around the firm presence inside him.

It's more than his own hand and dream. It's a pressure he barely makes through, feeling Grigory try to keep him in, coax his cock to finish far inside him and sow something neither could risk. Artemy drags his cock free from Grigory, his hand still rolling against his crux and the other reaching to his own prick. Kneeling over Grigory as he pulls his own release out of him is enough to make him feel so tremendously awake, alive, alert, watching Grigory's eyes fall back into his head and his mouth curl into a fucked-out smile, bending and writhing his legs while Artemy keeps wringing pulse after pulse over his clit.

Grigory's hand to stop him is shockingly steady. Artemy exhales harshly, having held his breath long enough. Grigory opens his eyes and looks down at them both.

"Fine work when a body's ripe to take," he remarks. Somehow, he has the energy to prop himself up on his arm, whereas Artemy wonders if Grigory could support him if he dropped. "Might have to try you on again when you come back."

Artemy looks at the mess he spilled on to Grigory's thighs. He thinks he might be embarrassed, but his heart is too raw from emptying himself to register anything but the tingling sensation of ravenous need. "You'll. If we—"

"Take your time."

"Shut up. If we're to try again. It's not going to be in a train car."

"Maybe it can be, if the mood's in the right place." Grief looks like he may pull himself from beneath Artemy. But he doesn't. It's then that Artemy wonders if the fantasy involved being beneath the force he controlled. "Going to have to do something about your little precautions."

"I'm going off to medical school. I'll figure something out."

"So you'll be in my guts and insides for entirely different reasons. Can't say I'll be running down with my hands to that thought."

Artemy reaches behind him, near the lantern, and fetches Grigory's coat. He drops it on him, who then pulls it on. "Behave. We'll be talking about this."

"Take this as my answer," Grief says, rolling his head to look up at Artemy, stupid grin and all. "You ever get those _urges,_ think how nice it'll be to head back here and just _sink inside."_

Artemy hardens his stare to avoid the humiliating rush down to his bare body. "I'll keep that in mind."


End file.
